Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Yes. Yves St. Laurent. Firehouse Red.” Sheila smiled. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same lipstick you’re wearing now.”

  Harmon’s hand, shaking, went to her mouth. She stood there for a moment, obviously trying to decide what to do. Then blind panic set in and she made a very stupid mistake.

  “I’m not going to jail!” she cried, and whirled and darted for the file room.

  Harmon was quick. But Bartlett was even quicker, and her tight red skirt and three-inch heels slowed her up. He caught up with her before she managed to escape through the door into the backyard.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time they got to the station, Harmon had gathered her wits, composed herself, and asked to call her lawyer, whose office was in San Antonio. He would get there as soon as he could, but he had a couple of clients and wasn’t sure how long that would be. After she was fingerprinted, Sheila escorted her to one of the department’s two interrogation rooms, a narrow, windowless space with only a table, several chairs, and a one-way window. The duty officer turned on the tape-recording equipment, read her the Miranda warning, and asked if she wanted a cup of coffee.

  “I’m waiting for my attorney,” she said, and sat, arms folded, sullenly staring at the wall.

  While Bartlett was out with Sheila, Dr. Morse had called to say that she had moved up the time of the autopsy and was ready to begin. When they got back to the station, Bartlett left immediately for the Adams County hospital. Sheila went toward her office. Connie’s desk was in the small anteroom, and she stopped there.

  “Been wondering where you were,” Connie said, reaching for a stack of pink phone messages. “Busy morning, huh?”

  Connie Page had been Sheila’s assistant for the past couple of years. A competent, alert woman, not quite middle-aged, she was perfectly capable of handling a lot of the paperwork herself—and she did, with Sheila’s signature stamp. She had a good eye for what the boss needed to see and what she didn’t, and Sheila was grateful.

  “Busy doesn’t begin to describe it.” Sheila took the sheaf of messages and glanced up at the clock, startled to see that it was just twelve thirty. It felt as if she’d been out of the office for a week.

  “We need to get some food down you,” Connie said, reaching for a sweater. “How about if I run over to the diner and get a hamburger to go?”

  “That would be terrific,” Sheila said, suddenly aware of how hungry she was. Breakfast seemed like a century ago. “Fries, too.” The diner’s fries were crisp and delicious. “Double up on the catsup. Okay?”

  She went into her office, sat down at her desk, and reached for the phone. By the time Connie got back with the food, she had finished returning the most crucial calls and had begun to attack the stack of paperwork. She’d been working for a half hour, reading and signing documents while she devoured her hamburger and fries, when Detective Matheson called. Since Bartlett was still at the hospital, Sheila took it.

  “Hey, Chief, we got something good from one of those garbage guys,” Matheson said enthusiastically. He was a big, burly man with a voice to match, so deep a bass that it rumbled. One of Bubba Harris’ team of good old boys, he had been with the department for twenty-some years. “The driver didn’t see anything. But the guy who picks up the cans—Carlos Gutierrez—remembers seeing a woman in the neighborhood yesterday, when they were picking up. Some babe in a blue suit, real short skirt.” There was a smile in his voice. “Says he whistled at her, but under his breath. Didn’t want to get into trouble.”

  “Description?” Sheila asked, taking notes. “How far away was she when he saw her? What were the circumstances?”

  “She was coming down a driveway between two houses. Gutierrez was at the curb, replacing an empty can. He saw her straight on at about ten, twelve yards, so he got a pretty good look. He said she was plenty startled to see him. Anglo, blue suit, black hair, red lipstick, good legs, nice round little—” Matheson stopped and cleared his throat. “I hear we’ve got somebody in custody. Want me to bring this guy down for a show-up? Maybe he can give us a positive ID on this chick you’re holding.”

  “We’re doing this by the book, Mattie,” Sheila said. “Gutierrez could be our case. We don’t want to risk tainting his identification.”

  Driven by too many flawed convictions, the state of Texas was considering legislation to improve police lineups. Too often, the eyewitness was asked to identify the suspect in what was called a “show-up,” where the police show a single suspect, often handcuffed or sitting in the back of a police car, to the witness or the victim, and simply ask, “Is this the guy that did it?” Even though the witness might not be sure of the identification, the fact that the cops had the suspect in custody could tip the balance.

  The Dallas Police Department hadn’t waited for legislation to force a change. They had rewritten their lineup policy a couple of years before, and Sheila had adapted it for PSPD. The new policy put a stop to show-ups altogether. It required eyewitnesses and victims to look at an array of at least six photographs, administered by an officer who had no idea which picture was the suspect’s. The lineup procedure was videotaped, so if necessary it could be introduced into evidence when the case went to court.

  “No problemo, Chief,” Matheson said comfortably, without any indication that he felt he’d been slapped on the wrist. “Let me know when you’re ready for Gutierrez, and I’ll see that he gets there.”

  “Good work, Mattie,” Sheila said warmly. “We’ll need him as quick as we have the autopsy report and a ruling from Judge Porterfield and get some photos set up.”

  Sheila was putting the phone down when Bartlett returned from the autopsy and came into Sheila’s office, grinning broadly and waving a piece of paper.

  “Confirmed everything we figured,” he said to Sheila. “No powder tattooing around the entrance wound, so the gun was fired from at least two feet, probably or more. Angle of the shot, slightly downward—the killer was standing while Kirk was seated. And no powder residue on Kirk’s hands. Morse phoned a preliminary to Judge Porterfield before I left the hospital. The judge just faxed her report to the duty desk. Officially, we’ve got a homicide.”

  “Glad that’s settled,” Sheila said, and added, with a crooked smile, “I’d hate to see it come out the other way.”

  He nodded. “Oh, and while I was at the hospital, I went upstairs to check on Palmer. He’s still out of it, but he’s stable. The doc said he’d call us as soon as he can be questioned.” He put an evidence envelope on Sheila’s desk. It was the bullet, the tip slightly deformed. “And this is the slug Morse took out of Kirk’s brain.”

  Sheila looked down at the spent, misshapen bullet, thinking how small it was, how dangerous, how lethal. She shivered and looked up quickly.

  “Things are moving pretty fast, Jack. That was Matheson on the phone. He’s got one of the garbage crew, a guy—” She looked down at her notes. “A guy named Carlos Gutierrez. Gutierrez saw a woman in the alley yesterday, when they were picking up on Pecan Street. Sounds like our suspect, down to the good legs. I told Mattie we’d set up a photo lineup here at the station.”

  Bartlett grinned. “Mattie belongs to the old school. Bet he was rarin’ to do a show-up.”

  Sheila answered his smile. “He’s a good man. He’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Yeah. Well, okay.” Bartlett sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I’ll put Blount on getting some photos together. She can let Mattie know when she’s ready, and he can bring Gutierrez in.”

  “The sooner the better,” Sheila said. “Let’s try to get the lineup done before that lawyer arrives. Assuming, of course, that Gutierrez can identify her. If he can’t…” She shook her head. “This thing is too circumstantial. I’d sure like to have a few more pieces. Anything on the gun?”

  “Afraid not,” Bartlett said regretfully. “There are probably thousands of those old Llamas floating around, with dozens changing hands at every gun show.” He was abo
ut to say something else when Connie opened the door and came in, a manila envelope in her hand.

  “The sheriff’s office just sent over these forensic reports on the Kirk case,” she said. “I asked the deputy why they just didn’t email them.” She grinned. “He said their email is down.”

  Bartlett suppressed a laugh. “High-tech. The county is down more than it’s up.”

  “Could be us,” Sheila said, and opened the envelope. She spread the three pages out on the desk and she and Bartlett looked through them.

  “Hey!” Bartlett said excitedly, and pushed one of the papers at her. “Look at this, Sheila. It’s a partial on that shell casing!”

  “No kidding?” Sheila breathed. “Omigod—that’s what it is!” She read the text beside the enlarged photograph. It was a print of a right index finger, partial, but very clear. “Let’s take this to Butch and see what he can do with it.”

  Ten minutes later, they were standing beside Butch Bedford, taking turns looking through his microscope at the partial that had been found on the cartridge casing retrieved from Kirk’s kitchen. They were comparing the casing print to a print of Jackie Harmon’s right index finger.

  “Looks like a match to me,” Butch said. “If I could put this on a projector, you’d see an island, a bifurcation, and a spur—three pretty strong identification points, especially since this is a partial. Remember, though, it’s just a preliminary analysis, on this small microscope, and my confidence level isn’t better than about eighty percent. It should go to the county forensic lab, where they’ve got a comparison microscope. Or Austin, where they’ve got some pretty sophisticated equipment. Might take a little longer, but—”

  “Let’s start with the county,” Bartlett said. “You’ve already found three points, they may find a couple more. If the DA wants another lab to look at it, we can send it to Austin.” He turned to Sheila. He was grinning broadly, his dark eyes alight. “With everything else we’ve got, I think we’ve just about wrapped this one up, Chief.”

  “Don’t get too cocky,” Sheila cautioned. But she was grinning, too. “Congratulations, guys.” She high-fived him, then Butch.

  “Oh, and there’s something else, Chief,” Butch said. “Before you brought this in, I was about to pick up the phone to tell you that I got a match on that set of prints Clarke brought in earlier this morning. Jason Hatch. The match was left middle finger and right index finger, on the computer belonging to George Timms.”

  “Hey, Butch, that’s great!” Bartlett exclaimed.

  “Good work,” Sheila said. “What’s your confidence level?”

  “About ninety percent on that one,” Butch said. Sheila smiled at the pride in his voice. He was going to be an asset to the department.

  Bartlett’s phone gave three digital pings and he flipped it open. “Bartlett,” he said shortly, and listened. “Thanks, Doc. Be right there.” To Sheila, he said, “Palmer’s conscious. He’s still in ICU, but the doctor says we can talk to him now. What’s more, he’s asking to talk to us.”

  “Well, that’s a switch,” Sheila said. She added, “But before we leave, let’s get Annetta to draw up a search warrant for Hatch’s house. Specify the computer and other documents. He may have kept records of his victims.”

  Bartlett was thoughtful. “Yeah. I’ll put Matheson on the search with her. No telling where that could go. We might uncover something we don’t know about.”

  THE Adams County Hospital, on the far west side of town, was housed in a two-story red-brick main building, built in the early 1940s and set back from the street on a circle drive lined with large live oaks. Off to the right was the one-story Obermann wing constructed a couple of decades later with a gift from a noted town doctor. To the left was a new two-story wing, which housed the Intensive Care Unit. Today, it was under the careful eye of the charge nurse, Helen Berger, who led them to Palmer’s cubicle.

  “I know it’s important for both of you to talk to him,” she said quietly, “but don’t stay any longer than ten minutes. And try not to upset him. He’s been a little panicky.” She frowned a little. “The doctor has told him that he’ll recover, but he’s convinced that he’s going to die. Don’t be surprised if he tells you that.”

  “Thanks,” Sheila said, stepping back to let Bartlett go ahead.

  Helen smiled. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since you and the sheriff got married, Chief. Just want to say congratulations and best wishes to both of you. You probably don’t know this, but I went to high school with Blackie.” She blushed. “Actually, I was sweet on him when I was sixteen or so. He’s such a great guy.”

  “He is that,” Sheila said, with a little chuckle. She wasn’t surprised by what Helen said. She had met other women who, at one time or another, had been sweet on Blackie. He was generally oblivious to the fact, but he had quite a few admirers.

  “I was just so sorry when he decided not to run for sheriff again,” Helen went on. “Some of the other nurses were saying the same thing. We need guys like him. Not to say that Sheriff Chambers isn’t doing a good job,” she added hastily. “I’m sure he is—or he will be, once he gets settled. It’s just that with Blackie there, well, we all knew things were being done the way they should be. Do you think he’ll change his mind and come back?”

  Sheila’s smile faded. She didn’t like to think that people—some people, anyway—felt that Blackie had made a mistake when he left the job, even though she wondered the same thing herself. But that wasn’t something she could say to Helen Berger.

  “I understand,” she said quietly. “But he’s doing a different job now—one he wants to do. Today, for instance, he’s down in Mexico, trying to locate that little Austin boy who was abducted by his mother.”

  “Oh, I heard about that child,” Helen said. “It’s awful. I hope Blackie can find him.” She frowned uncertainly. “But—Mexico? That isn’t the safest place to be right now, even for somebody who knows what he’s doing. I heard on the radio a little while ago that two American guys were shot by drug cartel members just south of Juárez. Right on the main highway, too.” Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. You’re probably worried enough already. I’m making it worse.”

  Two Americans shot? Sheila felt a dark edge of fear slicing through her insides. “Yes,” she admitted, suppressing a shiver. “It’s true. I am worried. Cross your fingers, Helen.” She touched the other woman’s arm and turned away. If she stayed an instant longer, Helen would read the fear in her eyes.

  Palmer’s bed was barricaded with a drip trolley and a monitor panel with assorted dials, displays, and switches. His head was swathed in bandages; his trunk was wrapped in white tape; and his left arm and leg were encased in plaster casts. A clear plastic drip tube was plugged into his right arm. His face bore scratches, almost like claw marks, and one cheek was badly abraded. His eyes were shut.

  Before she left the police station, Sheila had picked up her pocket tape recorder. Now, she made herself stop thinking of Blackie—two Americans shot?—and took it out and flicked the switch. Then she pulled out her notebook and went to stand near the door, out of the patient’s field of vision. Bartlett was leaning over Palmer’s still form.

  “Hey, Henry,” he said easily. “You in there?”

  Palmer’s eyelids fluttered. “Who—”

  “Jack Bartlett, PSPD. Remember? We spoke last night, at the shop. You said you wanted to talk. Still feeling like it?”

  “Yeah.” Palmer’s voice was high-pitched, thin and reedy, with a tremor of hysteria. He didn’t open his eyes. “What hit me? Nobody here will tell me.”

  “Gino’s Pizza van,” Bartlett said. “Swerved into the bike lane.” He paused and glanced at Sheila. She shook her head slightly. It wasn’t time to tell Palmer who’d been driving the van. They should save that information. It might be more useful later.

  Palmer moaned feebly. “I’m gonna die.”

  “Naw,” Bartlett sai
d, and put his hand on Palmer’s shoulder. “The doc says you’ll be okay. That van did a number on you, for sure, and you may be laid up for a while. But you’ll be back on a bike before long. In the meantime, just concentrate on feeling better.”

  “No,” Palmer whispered. “I’m gonna die, and I know it.” He opened his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got to get something off my chest. It’s about Jason Hatch and me and what we… we were doing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Bartlett asked.

  “Yeah. And about Hatch and Larry. Hatch killed Larry. I don’t want him to get away with it.” His voice became urgent and he tried to raise his hand. “You can’t let him get away with it! You’ve got to see that he pays!”

  Bartlett turned toward Sheila. She mouthed the word “Miranda,” and he nodded. The courts accepted deathbed confessions without insisting on the need for the Miranda warning. But while Palmer might believe he was on the verge of death, that wasn’t the case. What he was about to say might lead to the filing of criminal charges against him or someone else. When that happened, he might argue that his wasn’t a deathbed confession because he didn’t die. She didn’t want his evidence disallowed on that technicality.

  “Look, fella,” Bartlett said in a sympathetic tone. “I understand why you feel like you’re totally wrecked. Been there myself, after a motorcycle accident. But just in case you’ve got something to say that could incriminate you, I need to give you a Miranda warning. You understand?”

  Palmer closed his eyes again. “Yeah. I’ve seen it on TV. Do it. Do whatever you have to.”

  Bartlett took a card out of his wallet and read the Miranda warning. Then two questions: “Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you? Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?” The second question was required by the state of Texas to comply with the Vienna Convention.

  Palmer nodded.

  “What did you say?” Bartlett asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Sheila was taking notes. “Sorry, Henry. I didn’t hear you.”